EXP: Mycroft and Lestrade oneshots
by chasingriver
Summary: Stories in the Experiments universe with the main pairing of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. These may reference other stories in the EXP series. But please, for the sake of my sanity, just read the thing chronologically as Experiments 2, instead. Preferably on AO3.
1. Tshirt

Greg awoke to sun filtering through the sheer curtains, and Mycroft's long form curled around him. "Mmm. Morning, love."

Mycroft kissed his temple and nuzzled the side of Greg's sleep-lined face. "Any plans today?"

Greg smiled. He'd been having this dream... "As a matter of fact, I do. And you're coming with me."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, inquisitively. "Oh? What if I have to stop a world crisis?"

"It's Saturday. Can't you stop those things just by waving your hand or something?"

"I believe you're thinking of Zeus."

"Same difference, really." Greg gave Mycroft a lascivious smile and leaned in for a kiss. "Adonis, Zeus, take your pick. You're a Greek god, and you're all mine. Well, mostly mine. You know what I mean."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I _am_ all yours, Greg. You know the rest of it doesn't count."

"Mmm. Well, I was having a lovely dream just now, and I'd like to make it happen. We won't even have to go to Paris."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and looked a little disappointed. "That's a shame. Where are we going?"

"Camden market."

Now Mycroft really gave him a look. "What on _earth_ could you want from there, Gregory? You've been there, right? It's all junk stalls and hippies."

"Oi, I used to live near there. It's not all junk stalls. Anyway, we're not looking for high fashion."

"Oh… So it _is_ something fashion-related?"

"Yes. Well, technically no. Anti-fashion. You'll just have to wait and see. You're not allowed to wear a suit."

"Why not?"

"Just… You're not. You'll thank me later. Do you have a backpack?"

Mycroft stared at him with a look of near-horror.

"Right. 'Course you don't. We'll take mine."

"Why would we need a backpack?"

"Well, you'll need something to put your clothes in."

"Gregory, I don't know what you have in mind…"

Greg rolled on top of him and straddled his chest, kissing him to shut him up. "You." He nipped at Mycroft's ear. "Are going to do." He chewed on his lover's lower lip. "Whatever I tell you to." He pulled back and looked at Mycroft. "Right?"

"Well, Gregory, if you put it like that…"

"That…" Greg reached back and rubbed his hand against Mycroft's groin. "Is _exactly_ how I'm putting it."

Mycroft sucked in a breath and nodded. "Right. I'll call for the car."

"No car. We're taking the tube."

Cue the second look of horror. "The tube? Really, Gregory. I hardly think that's necessary."

Greg pinned his lover's hands to the pillow. "There is no fucking way I'm taking a limo to Camden market. It's just… wrong. Plus, I want to see you take the tube. I think it'll be hysterical." He had a playful grin on his face.

Mycroft pouted.

"Oh, don't be a spoilsport, My. It won't be as bad as you think. Do you have any jeans?"

Raised eyebrows. "I believe I own one pair, yes."

"Great. Wear those. And any shirt you have that doesn't button up. I'll be back in a minute." He went into the large room where Mycroft kept his huge collection of suits. _Honestly, it's bigger than some of my flats have been._ His clothes took up a small space in the corner. Some of his stuff was still in cardboard boxes – not necessary for work, but not something he'd wanted to leave back at his flat, either. He dug around in them until he found what he was looking for – a pair of scruffy jeans, a Clash t-shirt (_from a show, mind you)_, a studded leather belt, and a pair of combat boots. A quick search through Mycroft's bathroom cabinet turned up some stuff to spike his hair a bit. He started to get dressed.

Mycroft was still lounging on the bed, naked. "Aren't you planning on showering first?"

"No. And you're not allowed to either. You have to be a bit grotty for this. Trust me." Mycroft wrinkled his nose again.

"Wait, what _are_ you wearing…?"

Greg stepped into the bedroom, hair softly spiked, wearing skin-tight jeans and the form-fitting t-shirt. He didn't even have the boots or the belt on yet. "Yeah? What'dya think?"

Mycroft finally realised his mouth was open, and he shut it.

"I was punk long before I was a D.I."

Mycroft still didn't know what to say, but his cock certainly seemed enthusiastic.

Greg smiled. "Don't get me wrong, My. You look fucking incredible in a suit. But I want to see you in some tight jeans. And there's no fucking way I'm letting you wear a suit on my bike."

Mycroft's mouth just wouldn't stay closed. "You… have a bike?"

Greg pushed Mycroft back onto the bed and climbed on top of him again. "Mmm. I have a bike. And I'm going to teach you how to _ride_ it." He ground his arse into his lover. "And if you ask _really_ nicely, maybe I'll let you fuck me on it. But first, we have to get you something indecent to wear."

It took him a while, but Mycroft eventually found his pair of jeans. _They'd been pressed._ Greg inwardly groaned, but smiled approvingly. _They weren't nearly tight enough, but it was a start._ Mycroft found a shirt that didn't button. He still looked like a politician, but at least he could go to Camden market without sticking out like a sore thumb.

As Mycroft tried to comb his hair into some sort of order, Greg reached up and mussed it back into its natural curls. "Leave it, My. I like it. C'mon. We need to go before all the good stuff's gone."

Mycroft peered at him doubtfully, but took his hand and they made their way to the tube station.

"You know, I've never actually taken the tube."

"You're joking."

"No. I'm really not a big fan of… people."

Greg laughed. "Think of it as a chance to deduce the hell out of everyone."

Thankfully, the trains weren't completely packed. It was early on a Saturday, after all. They even got seats. Mycroft took Greg's idea to heart and muttered things under his breath as they rode.

"Going home to her husband after spending the night with her girlfriend."

"Thinks no one will notice his nipple piercings." ("That's not a deduction." "No, but it's true.")

"Quit his job with the government yesterday to become a writer. Now he's having second thoughts."

At the next station, Sherlock got on the train, covered in blood and carrying a harpoon. "Mycroft?" There was incredulity and panic in his voice.

"Sherlock?"

After their initial reaction, they completely ignored each other. Greg wasn't sure which rated higher on the absurdity scale. _They were both on the tube – fairly unlikely right there. Sherlock was covered in blood and carrying a harpoon, but Mycroft was wearing jeans. It was about equal, really._

Sherlock got off King's Cross. Mycroft didn't say a word. Greg just looked at him and laughed like an idiot until Mycroft started laughing as well.

Greg made them get off at Camden Town, even though Chalk Farm was probably closer. He wanted Mycroft to experience the _thronginess_ of it all - _the Children's Crusade. _Even though they were both skewing the age curve pretty badly, it was still the best place to get skinny jeans and used combat boots in London.

Greg looked at his nervous lover, lasciviously. "So, you'd like a 'ride on my bike,' eh?"

Mycroft tried not to blush, and failed.

"Here's the deal. You have to wear everything I buy you – all the way home. Trust me. It'll be worth it."

Mycroft nodded, still looking nervous.

Greg dragged him into the first place that sold used combat boots. Mycroft, sitting in a cracked plastic chair in his pressed jeans, tried on someone else's shoes for the first time in his life. Greg nodded in approval. "Those'll do. Let's see what we can do about some jeans. Everything else'll be easy."

Greg paid for the boots and put Mycroft's shoes in the backpack. Greg glanced down at the boots, glanced at Mycroft, and licked his lips. Mycroft suddenly decided he could do this.

The next shop had jeans. There was a space in the back with a curtain where he could try them on. "Gregory, there's no way I can fit into these."

"Trust me. It just takes a while to work them over your calves." He poked his head around the curtain.

"Gregory!"

"Fuck..." It was said with complete awe. "No, those fit. Those definitely fit. Bloody hell." They were faded, ripped, and obscenely tight. _Gloriously obscene, actually._ It was tempting to get him home now, but there were other things to find.

Mycroft started to take them off. "Don't even think about it. Put your old ones in the backpack. I'll pay for these."

Greg picked out half a dozen used t-shirts from one of the vendor stalls. They'd be pleasantly tight across Mycroft's finely muscled form.

Mycroft had stopped trying to protest. It was nothing he would have ever _chosen_ to wear, but he couldn't deny that he looked, well, surprisingly _good_. Greg could barely keep his hands off his arse_. Good lord, I'm wearing somebody else's shoes. No – combat boots. That's even worse. _

"Take off your shirt."

"What, here?"

"Yes, here. It's not illegal. C'mon." He handed Mycroft one of the old shirts.

Mycroft gingerly pulled his shirt off and hastily put on the tight, faded t-shirt.

_Oh, fuck yes, that works. _"Okay. Almost done. All we need now is the leather."

"For the bike?"

"No, just for, well… the leather. I'll get you a set of leathers for the bike later." Greg shuddered pleasantly at the thought of Mycroft in full leathers. _I'd buy a fucking bike just to see that._

They found another vendor stall with handmade leather accessories. Greg knew that the "real" punk stuff was cheap and nasty, but that was only because they'd never been able to afford the good stuff. By this point, Mycroft took the wrist cuffs, studded belt and chained wallet in stride, but balked at the collar.

"Surely, Gregory, you must be joking."

"Not even a little bit. Spikes or no spikes? It's up to you."

Spikes it was. Mycroft shot Greg another _look._

"Trust me, Mycroft, no one will care."

"Perhaps not here. What about walking back to my flat? What if someone from work sees me?"

"You can have them killed, can't you? No, I'm joking. Just tell them you went to a costume party."

Mycroft sighed and put on the collar. Greg helped buckle it in the back, and used the opportunity to press up against his lover. "You look fucking amazing, My."

The collar bothered him a bit. It all seemed like a joke at his expense. The crowds made him nervous, and he just wanted to leave. "Gregory…"

"Yes, we're done. But we're not finished." He dragged Mycroft off down a side street. Suddenly, all the noise and the crowds faded into the background. Away from the main road, it was surprisingly deserted. He stopped in front of a shop window, and made Mycroft look at his reflection. "My, look at yourself. Do you see how fucking hot you are?"

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his new skin, but he had to admit that the tight clothes were appealing, in a post-apocalyptic sort of way. His hair was a mess of dark ginger curls. His tie had been replaced with a spiked leather collar. His suit jacket, shirt, and waistcoat had been replaced with a faded red t-shirt. His pocketwatch – a chained wallet. His understated leather belt had been replaced by a gaudy, studded one. His lovely bespoke trousers were now skin-tight ripped jeans. And his shoes were now somebody else's boots.

Mycroft Holmes absorbed his appearance. Mycroft Holmes – tutors, public school, Eton, minor government official, and now – badass punk. He _did _know how to kill someone in fifty different ways. They just usually weren't expecting it from somebody in a three-piece suit with an umbrella. But now? He actually _looked_ like he could kill someone. He started laughing at the sheer absurdity of it all. Q_ueen and Country replaced by God Save the Queen. _"So, Greg. I must admit, I find _you_ attractive wearing those clothes. But honestly, do you really find me attractive right now, or is it just the novelty factor? Or perhaps the collar?"

Greg grabbed his belt and dragged him down the nearest alley. Shoving him against the wall, he started kissing the hell out of him. "What do you think, My?" He rubbed Mycroft's hand on his throbbing erection. "I've been hard since you put on the jeans. I figured it was probably obvious."

Greg's jeans _were_ tight, and Mycroft belatedly realised it _was_ obvious, but he'd been too self-conscious to notice. He mumbled an apology.

"Don't apologize you stupid git, push me up against this wall and fuck me… Or do you want me on my knees…?"

_That_ comment made Mycroft groan, and he shoved Greg further down the alleyway. _God I'm thick sometimes._ After a brief, almost subconscious scan for CCTV cameras, he pushed Greg to his knees. "Suck me off, and make it good."

"Oh fuck yes." He worked furiously at Mycroft's ridiculously tight jeans, finally releasing his half-hard cock and shoving it deep in his mouth.

Mycroft let out a moan. "That's it. You like that, don't you, you little cock slut?"

Greg groaned around his cock and sucked harder.

Mycroft looked down at the soft spikes of Greg's hair, bobbing up and down as he swallowed his cock. _How on earth did I get this lucky?_ And then, because his brain really wasn't functioning properly with his cock down Greg's throat – _nnggghhh… fuck. _Even if he didn't swear often, his brain did – especially when Greg was involved. He grabbed both sides of Greg's head and started fucking his face, hard. He wasn't going to last long, but they were in some back alley in Camden – lasting wasn't the point. Getting off was the point.

Greg would have smiled if his mouth hadn't been completely filled with Mycroft's cock. _It was the little things in life – having your lover fuck you senseless in an alley somewhere and both getting off on the sex and the possibility of being discovered. _He'd never thought Mycroft would do this, and he was quite touched that he'd let go enough to allow it. He groaned around his lover's cock, relishing the taste and feel of it in his mouth. Mycroft moved one hand to the back of Greg's head and started thrusting even harder. Greg felt Mycroft's cock hit the back of his throat and tried not to gag. _Too deep to breathe. Just hang on. _

Mycroft kept up the punishing pace and then gave a few shallow strokes so Greg could catch his breath. Then he hissed down to him, "I hope you can hold your breath, Greg, because I'm fucking your face like this 'til I come down your throat."

Greg wasn't sure if he was more excited at the domination, Mycroft's use of swear words or that he'd called him Greg. _Regardless, it was fucking hot. _He revelled in it as Mycroft fucked his throat raw, white points of light creeping in at the edges of his vision as his brain screamed for oxygen. He was determined to hold it together until Mycroft came. He dug his fingers tightly into Mycroft's jeans-clad arse and pulled him even deeper. Swallowing hard, he could feel the muscles in his throat working the sensitive head of his cock.

Mycroft let out a guttural moan, trying not to be too loud, and failing. His knees went weak as he came deep inside Greg's throat, and he was almost glad for the relative support of the tight jeans and the combat boots. Greg sucked him down eagerly licked his cock clean. His eyes were watering from the intensity and force of it. "Fuck, that was good My. Thanks."

Mycroft pulled Greg to his feet and laughed as he tucked himself back into his jeans. "I believe I should be thanking you. C'mon, let's get out of here before one of us loses our job."

They wandered down the relatively empty streets off the main road – two punks holding hands – one ran the British government, and the other, parts of Scotland Yard. A lot had changed since Margaret Thatcher.

"So, My. You were a pretty good sport about the tube. We can take a taxi back if you want."

"No, I'll deny it if anyone asks, but I sort of enjoyed it. And seeing Sherlock with that harpoon…"

"Yeah, what the fuck was that about?"

Mycroft shrugged. "We could always go and find out."

Greg smiled. "You _want_ him to see you dressed like this, don't you."

"No, Gregory. I want _both_ of them to see me dressed like this. Because I'm yours, you bought me these fantastic clothes, and I want _you_ to show me off."

Between his tight jeans and the intensity of the blowjob, Greg didn't think his cock could get any harder, but hearing Mycroft say that? It did.


	2. Switch

**Summary: **Mycroft and Greg head home after their time with John and Sherlock. Mycroft spots some untapped potential in Greg, and Greg is more than happy to explore it.

**A/N: **This chapter directly follows EXP: Group and Other Pairings, Chapter 3 – "Punk Revolution".

Many thanks to **non_canonical** for her beta! All mistakes are mine...

**Warnings:** mentions of knife play and very mild knife play

* * *

><p>"I've never seen anyone silence Sherlock quite that effectively before." Mycroft stretched out in the back of the black sedan, all traces of stress and tension gone from his long, lean body. The driver had been somewhat taken aback by his appearance, which owed more to the Sex Pistols than Savile Row.<p>

"He needs a cock in his mouth more often."

"I don't think any of us would disagree with that. Not even Sherlock. I think he's wishing he'd gone through a punk phase now."

"My punk youth wasn't half as exciting as that. Got some good music out of it, mind you, but it wasn't much for the sex." Greg leant back against the soft leather and rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. It was only early afternoon, but it had been an exhausting day. Morning in Camden market had netted Mycroft a delicious new wardrobe, and lunchtime at 221B had gotten them very enthusiastic blow-jobs from Sherlock and John. It was a good time to be punk.

"That's the second time, now." Mycroft seemed lost in thought as he said it.

"Hm?" Greg looked up at Mycroft, quizzically.

"That's the second time I've seen you top Sherlock. Quite effectively, I might add."

Greg shrugged, his posture a little defensive.

Mycroft leaned over and placed a kiss on the side of his face. "Don't apologize, love. I just didn't realise you had any switch tendencies."

"Some, I s'pose. It could just be retaliation for all the shit he gives me at work."

"How would you feel about learning how to top, Gregory?"

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Only if you want to, love." Mycroft looked away and a faint tinge coloured his cheeks. "Although, I must admit, my motives aren't completely unselfish."

Gregory Lestrade wasn't a Holmes (well, not yet), but it was obvious what Mycroft was getting at. "I thought you only topped. I mean, I know… John… the other day with the corsets… but…"

"It's nice to let go sometimes. You know that. It would be even nicer if I could do that with you, my love." Mycroft searched Greg's face for signs of emotion. _Curiosity… and intimidation. Fair enough. _

"Yeah, okay."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"It's not like there's much for you to learn, mind you. You've already got the attitude down."

Greg got up out of his slouched position and climbed into Mycroft's lap, his knees on either side of Mycroft's hips in the plush leather. He leant in until he was about an inch from Mycroft's face. "So…" he whispered the words, barely moving the air between them. "You're telling me you want me to force my cock down your throat so far you can't breathe?" Greg could feel his heart beating in his chest. This wasn't what he was used to with Mycroft – not at all – but the thought of it was making him hard - making them both hard, by the feel of it.

Greg leant in ever so slightly closer and ran his tongue over Mycroft's open lips. His lover was breathing faster and his eyes were closed, and he wasn't moving a muscle. "You want me to tie you up and use you like a cheap whore, don't you?"

Mycroft sucked in a deep breath and thrust his groin up against him. _That's a yes, then. _Greg used both hands to press him back against the seat. "You're more of a cock slut than you let on. Perhaps I should take you bent over your big wooden desk at that posh office of yours. Fuck you so hard you want to scream, but you wouldn't be able to make a sound because the Korean Ambassador is in the next room. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Mycroft nodded; his breathing was so heavy he was almost panting. "What else do you want, Mycroft? Tell me." Greg's voice was a low, commanding whisper.

"Sometimes I…"

"What?"

"Sometimes I need pain. It clears my head. I'd like you to be the person to give me that."

Greg was almost overcome by emotion at that. "Anything, love." Mycroft had stumbled on the words – it probably wasn't an easy thing for him to admit. _Perhaps he thinks I'm not comfortable with pain play. The logistics, perhaps, but not the concept._ "You'd like me to crop that beautiful arse of yours, wouldn't you? You want to feel it while you sit there meeting with the Prime Minister. Every time you shift in your seat, you'll feel it. You'll remember being bent over with your arse in the air, begging for more. You're going to beg for me, aren't you, Mycroft?"

"Oh, god. Yes." Mycroft swallowed.

Greg leaned back, squirming against Mycroft's erection. He yanked Mycroft's t-shirt from his jeans and scraped his fingernails down Mycroft's chest. "Yes, _what_?"

Mycroft had opened his eyes and was gazing at him with a mixture of lust and amusement. "Yes… Gregory."

"Mm. You need to learn some manners." Greg climbed off Mycroft and sat in the seat beside him. "Jeans – off. Now."

"Here?"

"Do you want me to cut them off you? Yes, fucking here."

Mycroft's brain lit up unexpectedly at the mention of a knife. _Really? I thought I knew all my kinks by now. _Images of Greg delicately running the sharp point of a knife down his chest, leaving a tiny trail of blood in its wake, went through his head. He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. _Not relevant at the moment._ He started working on his ridiculously tight jeans, somewhat of a challenge given his tumescence.

Greg noticed the pause and the brief shake of the head. "Later. No knife play in a moving car."

Mycroft looked a little startled. _Did he just hear that?_

"No, but I'm not as slow as Sherlock thinks I am."

_Jesus. I wonder if I can teach him how to hear me like Sherlock can? _Mycroft realised he still didn't have his jeans down and shuffled in his seat, hurrying to comply. Between the boots and the tightness of the jeans, they weren't coming all the way off.

Greg's mouth was dry. _That's one hell of a sight. The half-down jeans are just immobilising him. _"That's good enough." He reached over and forcibly pulled Mycroft over onto his lap, his bare arse lying there in front of him, making his mouth water. He tried to avoid thinking about Mycroft's hard cock pressing into his leg. Thinking about that wasn't going to help his concentration one bit.

Greg leaned over to whisper in Mycroft's ear. "I think you've been a top so long you've forgotten your manners. Perhaps a little punishment will help you remember them. What do you think?" He gave a brief flick at Mycroft's ear with his tongue.

"I think you'll have to remind me."

_If that's not an invitation… _He brought his hand down hard on Mycroft's arse, pleasantly surprised at the feel of it. It made his hand tingle. There was a lovely hand-shaped red mark on the otherwise pale flesh of Mycroft's arse. He'd heard Mycroft suck in his breath, but otherwise there had been no vocal reaction. Greg bent down and nipped at his ear again, as he hissed, "Well?"

"Harder." Mycroft's voice was low and breathy. He might have amazing self-control, but he was far from unaffected.

Greg's hand flew through the air, landing on bare skin with a sharp 'crack' this time.

"Ngghh."

The sound went straight to Greg's cock. _That_ was not a sound Mycroft Holmes normally made. It was a pained, lust-filled sound that begged for more. He gave him more. Repeatedly. Mycroft was squirming on top him, partially from the sensations, and partially to stimulate his aching cock. His arse was an angry shade of red now, and Mycroft was openly moaning at each slap of Greg's hand.

Greg knew the driver could hear them, but he really didn't care. The driver probably thought _he _was getting spanked. As far as Greg knew, Mycroft had never been spanked in the back of his own limousine. Each blow, and the reaction to it, was just making him harder. It felt good to control someone's pleasure like this.

"Have you remembered your manners yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Glad to hear it." He rubbed his hand over Mycroft's tender arse, and Mycroft flinched a little at the touch. Greg checked the side console. _Yep. Lube, Jelly Babies, and wet wipes. _

At the sound of the console opening, he could feel Mycroft tense. "Perhaps I'm just going to feed you Jelly Babies." He got the Jelly Babies out as well, just to be perverse. The white paper bag made enough noise to cover the 'snap' of the lube container. Greg grabbed the back of Mycroft's spiked leather collar and pulled his head back. Mycroft opened his mouth and extended his tongue just beyond his lips. Greg delicately placed a Jelly Baby into his mouth. Mycroft moaned as the sweetness made his mouth water.

"Another?"

"Yes, please."

This time, Greg didn't pull Mycroft's head back – he surreptitiously slicked up his other hand before feeding Mycroft another Jelly baby.

As the second sweet hit his tongue, Mycroft felt one of Greg's thick, lubed fingers thrust deep into his arse. He almost choked on the Jelly Baby as he let out a surprised 'ngghh!' _Oh yes, he definitely has good instincts. I wasn't expecting that until after the Jelly Babies. _He pushed back onto Greg's finger, which was immediately removed.

"Lie still, or you get nothing."

Mycroft willed his body to comply as Greg teased the outside of his hole, daring him to move. Greg's hand dropped lower, teasing his balls, rubbing the skin gently between his fingers. When he moved his hand back up, his finger was still teasing – still tantalizingly _there_, but not inside. "Please."

"Tell me what you want. Be specific.

_Specific. Dirty?_ "I want your thick fingers in my tight, greedy hole." He was rewarded with another thrust deep inside.

Greg's eyes had gone wide at the words coming out of Mycroft's mouth. _God, that's hot. I need to have _him_ talk dirty. Find out what he likes._

"Why?" Greg's finger moved slowly, carefully avoiding Mycroft's prostate.

"Because I'm a filthy little cock slut who just wants to be filled up with anything you'll give me."

Greg smiled as he pressed down on Mycroft's prostate and started massaging it. He felt Mycroft tense against it, willing his body not to move. _Christ. I would have moved. _The moans coming out of Mycroft's mouth compensated for any movement.

He pulled out and thrust two fingers back in. Mycroft's moan was muffled this time. Greg looked over and saw Mycroft biting his own wrist in an attempt to silence himself.

He felt the wetness of Mycroft's pre-come on his leg – there was so much it had soaked through his jeans. "Don't you dare." He twisted the two fingers inside him. "I'm going to get you nice and ready for later, but you don't get to come until I get my cock up your arse, and that's _not_ going to be in this car."

Mycroft shuddered slightly as this sunk in. _Spanked arse. Hard cock. Tight jeans. Oh, and punk gear on top of it all. One embarrassing walk from the car to the flat. _His thoughts evaporated as Greg added a third finger.

Greg fucked him more vigorously now, his fingers easily sliding in up to the second knuckle. He used his thumb to rub against Mycroft's balls. A quick glance – the teeth marks were getting deeper. "You can moan you know – I just said you couldn't move."

Mycroft nodded and appeared to bite down harder.

Greg realised this wasn't about noise level. "Oh, you little pain slut, you. It's not enough that I've got my fingers in your arse doing _this._" He brushed over his prostate a couple times and twisted his fingers roughly. "You want more, don't you?" Greg wondered why he was biting his wrist – there were better ways to produce pain. _Oh. Bruising. Hidden by shirt cuffs._ "You want to leave a bruise that you can touch afterwards, at work. Each time it aches, you'll remember me doing this." He hit his sweet spot again, and he felt Mycroft convulse with pleasure.

Mycroft nodded, impressed. Greg had gotten it exactly right.

Greg pulled his fingers out and gave him a quick slap on the arse. "Get dressed. We're almost there. Here, have a Jelly Baby." Greg popped one into Mycroft's mouth as he pulled himself off Greg's lap and gingerly pulled up his jeans.

Mycroft looked up at him through his eyelashes and smiled. "You're awfully good at this, you know."

Greg gave him a dazzling smile in return. "I am, aren't I?" He was almost giddy. He pulled Mycroft in and gave him a quick kiss. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"This. I didn't know it'd be this much fun. And I'm not done with you yet."

"Thank god for that."

The car pulled up next to the door to Mycroft's building they got out, both of them walking a little stiffly. Greg held his backpack in front of the obvious erection in his jeans. He let Mycroft suffer. (It wasn't much of a walk – more like a few steps.)

As soon as they were in the flat, Greg was back in his role. He dropped the backpack on the ground and pushed Mycroft back against the wall. He pinned Mycroft's wrists against the wall and kissed him roughly. Mycroft eagerly reciprocated, and for a few long minutes, they just explored each other's mouths.

Greg pulled back and took in Mycroft's appearance. He already looked well-fucked and they hadn't even started yet. There was a lovely red bite-mark on his wrist. His hair was a tousled mess. His lips were swollen and red. _Gorgeous. _

"On your knees. I want to see what that gorgeous mouth of yours can do." He knew what it could do. It had done wonderful things many times before, but never _quite_ like this. This shimmering veil of dominance let him see everything with new eyes.

Mycroft fell to his knees and quickly undid Greg's jeans, pulling them down as far as he could.

Greg sighed – it felt good to be finally free of them. It felt even better when Mycroft's mouth closed over the head of his cock and started teasing him back to full hardness. Deep long strokes were alternated with tongue flicks to his frenulum. Another stroke would be punctuated by a swirl of Mycroft's tongue around the head of his cock. He'd enjoyed fucking Sherlock's mouth earlier, but this – this was incredible. It was practice, and talent, and finesse. _Only Mycroft Holmes can turn a blow-job into an art form. _He reluctantly pulled Mycroft off his cock and slammed him against the wall again, kissing him senseless.

"Undo your jeans."

Greg greedily eyed Mycroft's thick cock. "Mm. All for me. Tell me what you want. Be specific."

"I want you to make me scream." Mycroft's voice was low and ragged.

"Oh, I'll make you scream. I'm going to stuff that lovely hole of yours full of my cock. You were so greedy for my fingers; I'll just be able to force myself right in there."

Greg realised things would be a lot easier if Mycroft's jeans were off, but that required taking off the combat boots…

"I can't wait any longer, you little cock tease. I'm just going to slash your jeans and fuck you through the hole. Would you like that?"

"Oh god, yes." Just the thought of it made him weak. _Christ. I definitely have a knife kink. How did I not know about this?_

Greg groped around in his pocket for his penknife. "Turn around and brace yourself." He flipped open the pocket knife. "Don't. Move."

Mycroft's jeans were already open, so Greg had room to pull the back of his jeans out a bit and get his hand in between Mycroft's skin and his knife. He delicately worked the point in, blade up, then quickly it pulled up and away from Mycroft. There was a satisfying rip of denim as the material gave way. Greg smiled, pleased with himself.

Mycroft was already braced against the wall and ready for him. Greg kicked Mycroft's feet out, spreading his legs. "You've been teasing me all night, you little slut. This is what you wanted, isn't it?" He ripped the hole in the jeans open a little wider.

"Yes, please…" His voice was desperate.

Greg lined up his cock against Mycroft's still-slick hole and shoved in with one hard thrust.

"Nggghhh. Ohhh."

He was buried deep in Mycroft's arse, but the usual slap of skin on skin was missing. _Oh, odd._ He'd never fucked anyone through clothes before – his balls hit denim, not skin. Bracing his hands on Mycroft's hips, he started pounding into him. "Don't come until I say." _Which isn't going to be long, at this rate. So fucking tight. Bloody hell. _

Mycroft tilted his hips so Greg would have a better angle. It was a delicious torture, having Greg hit his sweet spot so consistently, but being denied the privilege of orgasm.

Greg could feel his own orgasm coalescing in the near distance. He wrapped his hand around Mycroft's cock and let his thrusts do the work. "Come for me, my gorgeous little slut." As his own orgasm ripped through him, he leaned over and bit Mycroft's shoulder through his t-shirt. Hard.

That did it. The pain kicked Mycroft over the edge and he let out a throaty scream as he came, shuddering, all over Greg's fist. Greg held him as he came, pulling out of him once they were both finished. Mycroft was still braced against the wall, trembling slightly. Greg grasped Mycroft's shoulders and pulled him back so they were facing each other. He looked at him with concern. "You okay, love?"

Mycroft smiled, weakly. "More than okay. You were amazing."

"C'mon, let's go get cleaned up." He pulled up his jeans and they headed back toward the bedroom.

As they stripped off their clothes, Mycroft stared at his t-shirt and started laughing. "You're hell on clothes, Gregory Lestrade."

"Huh?"

"Well, you slashed my new jeans and you bit right through my t-shirt." He held the shirt up to the light to show Greg the holes.

"I'll buy you replacements. I can't let you _not_ wear tight jeans now that I've seen you in them."

Mycroft smiled. _I rather fancy them myself. Especially the effect they have on you._


	3. Desk

**Warning**: mild dub-con role-playing

**A/N**: My thanks to the lovely **non_canonical** for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

* * *

><p>"The Detective Inspector is here to see you, sir. He says it's urgent."<p>

"Please send him in. When is my appointment with the Ambassador?"

"He should be here at any moment, sir."

"Very well. I'm not to be disturbed."

"Of course, sir."

Mycroft stood up to greet his lover and was shocked to see him looking angry.

"It's not much to ask, you know - a little cooperation. We do work for the same government after all."

Mycroft looked at him, completely puzzled. "Sorry?"

"The Franklin Case. I'm being denied access to the records about the main suspect. 'Classified,' they tell me." The DI grabbed Mycroft's tie and pulled him forcibly closer. "I know I'm just a humble policeman, but I don't take kindly to being shut out of my own case." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "You need to make sure you keep me happy, Mr Holmes." He pulled Mycroft closer and kissed him.

"Gregory," Mycroft hissed, "As much as I would love to, I have to work. The ambassador will be here any moment now."

Still using the tie for leverage, Greg leaned in and nipped Mycroft's ear as he whispered, "I know."

He turned Mycroft away from him and pushed him against the wall, grasping his wrists so he could put them in handcuffs.

With anyone else, Mycroft would have twisted out of their grasp, pinned them to the floor, and most likely broken their arms. He fought his instincts and let himself be pushed to the wall, Greg's body warm against his own.

As Greg snapped on the handcuffs, he asked, "Do I have your cooperation in this, Mr. Holmes?"

In the outer office, they heard Anthea greet the ambassador. The clock was ticking, and the office clearly wasn't soundproof.

"You have my full cooperation, Detective Inspector." Mycroft tried to keep his voice calm as Greg rubbed up against him. Just the idea of being heard in the outer office was getting him aroused. _Honestly, how on earth can I pass this up?_

"On your knees," Greg hissed, as he started undoing his trousers.

"Time..." They were communicating in frantic whispers. Mycroft got on his knees, the wool of his expensive suit sinking into the plush carpet.

"You don't… have… a choice." Greg's trousers and pants were around his ankles now, and he was pushing the fat head of his cock against Mycroft's lips. "C'mon. Take it, you slut."

Mycroft almost regretted telling Greg that he found filthy language arousing, but only because he was mortified by the instant effect it always had on him. He willingly opened his mouth and Greg pushed in, hard and deep. With his hands cuffed behind him, Mycroft almost lost his balance.

Greg braced Mycroft's head with his hands, wasting no time with foreplay or teasing. Mycroft's lips were stretched tight around him, and his mouth was warm and wet. It felt heavenly. He loved watching his cock disappear into Mycroft's eager, willing mouth. He often marvelled at just how deep Mycroft was able to take him – it didn't seem like it should be possible.

Mycroft relaxed his mouth so Greg could fuck his face as hard as he wanted. He gave himself over to it, the headiness of the submission making his own cock hard. He pulled back his shoulders to take the pressure off his wrists – he didn't want any incriminating marks visible for his meeting with the ambassador. None of this was about subtlety or sensuality – it was about a quick, hard fuck and getting off on the risk of getting caught.

Greg was not quiet during sex. As Greg tried desperately to stifle his moans, he almost – _almost_ – decided this had been a bad idea. Mycroft looked up at him, his eyebrows grinning even if his full mouth couldn't. He was well aware of how difficult it was for Greg to keep quiet.

As Greg pulled Mycroft off his cock and up onto his feet, Mycroft whispered with a grin, "More difficult than you'd thought, eh?"

Greg struggled to maintain his role. He was dangerously close to giggling. He bit his lips, willing it to pass. "C'mon. I want you over the desk."

Mycroft headed toward his side of the desk. The desk was massive – the antique wood polished to a gleaming shine. The size would have overpowered a normal office, but Mycroft did not have a normal office.

"No, here. By the guest chair." Greg swept aside a few papers on the otherwise scrupulously neat desk and pushed Mycroft down onto it. He reached around and undid Mycroft's belt and trousers, letting the tailored clothes fall in a puddle at his feet. "Step out of them." He kicked Mycroft's feet apart, spreading his arse wide. "That's quite a view, Mr Holmes, with your arse barely covered by your shirt. What _would_ the ambassador think if I left you here like this and had him sent in?"

"You wouldn't."

"I might. It depends on how willing you are to cooperate on this case, Mr Holmes."

"I told you, anything you want."

"See, that's the thing. It's not _just_ information about the case that I want. I've been watching you for a long time, Mr Holmes. You haven't even noticed, have you? You stroll into my crime scenes and take whatever you want, without so much as a second thought. I've wanted to take you apart for a while, and now I'm going to take what _I_ want for a change. Have you ever had a cock up your arse, Mr Holmes?"

"Mycroft."

"What?"

"You've already had your cock in my mouth. If you're going to fuck me, we should at least be on a first name basis. Don't you agree?"

Greg pulled Mycroft's arms up by the handcuffs, forcing him uncomfortably against the desk. "It's Greg. But you can call me 'sir.' You're awfully rude for someone in your… predicament." Greg's hand moved to Mycroft's aching cock and closed around it.

Mycroft let out a moan.

"Quiet. Do I have to remind you where we are, or shall I just invite the ambassador in to watch? I'm not sure it would help your negotiating position." He grabbed one of Mycroft's arse cheeks and firmly squeezed it. "But as far as positions go, I'm quite fond of it."

Greg spotted an antique silver letter opener on the desk. The handle was ornately decorated, but the long blade was smooth and tapered to a point. He grabbed it and gently placed the point at the base of Mycroft's spine. He delicately ran the point down between Mycroft's spread cheeks, drawing small circles with it around the pucker of his hole.

"Please… sir."

"Tell me what you want."

"Anything… sir."

"Perhaps I should just fuck you with the handle of your own letter opener."

Mycroft sucked in a breath. The idea of it was so utterly _filthy_, so wrong, and yet he would have happily agreed in an instant.

"But I don't think it would do much for the letter opener, and it sure as hell wouldn't do anything for me." He'd been slicking up his fingers from a small sachet of lube. "Besides, I think you'll enjoy this more." He thrust one of his fingers into Mycroft's arse. He arched off the desk, trying not to moan at the intrusion. "See – a little cooperation with the police isn't so bad now, is it?"

"I can be very cooperative." Mycroft's voice was ragged.

"I'm sure you can." Greg added a second finger and pushed it in roughly.

Mycroft stifled a small low grunt as Greg's finger brushed his prostate. "Please… I don't know if I can take this silently. I want it hard."

"You'll get it however I want to give it to you. But you're right – I'm not sure you can keep your dirty little mouth shut either. He reached under Mycroft's chest and retrieved the inevitable silk handkerchief from Mycroft's suit jacket. "I like you half dressed – it's a good look on you." He took the square of silk and stuffed it in his mouth. "Better?"

Mycroft mumbled his assent around the wet silk.

"Good, because I don't think we should keep the ambassador waiting too much longer, do you?"

"Mmmoo."

Greg smiled at the undignified, un-Mycroft-like sounds coming from his lover's mouth. "You should really work on your diction, Mycroft. I can barely understand you. I'd be happy to help you with it."

A string of vowels that sounded roughly like "I'm sure you would," if you had an imagination, tumbled from Mycroft's mouth.

"So, you want to feel this all afternoon, eh? Are you sure?"

A muffled assent.

"Oh, I'd like nothing better. You know I love it when I have to force my way inside you."

Mycroft gave a full body groan that sounded suspiciously like desperate need.

As much as he enjoyed teasing Mycroft, Greg didn't want to cause an international incident. He lined up his slick cock and braced himself against Mycroft. Pushing hard against the resistance, he buried himself balls-deep in one long, wet slide. The hot tightness of it was almost overwhelming – he took a couple deep breaths to regain his composure – he didn't want this to be over before it started.

Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath through his nose a Greg's thick cock breached him. He could feel Greg's hard length filling him, pushing relentlessly deeper, until he eventually felt Greg's hips against his arse. His muscles had clenched at the intrusion, but he didn't try to relax. He wanted to be able to feel the slight burn during his meeting with the ambassador.

Greg's powerful thrusts pushed Mycroft roughly against the desk. The flat front of the desk ensured Mycroft's cock was taking as much of a pounding as his arse. Greg leaned over to whisper in Mycroft's ear as he fucked him. "You needed this, didn't you? You're such a little cock slut, and you're all mine."

Mycroft nodded as a particularly hard thrust drove him into the desk. He was gaining a new appreciation for ridiculously heavy furniture. The stretch of his arse around Greg's thick cock felt incredible, but he didn't think he'd climax from this alone. He needed to touch his cock, but his hands were still frustratingly handcuffed behind his back.

As if reading his mind, he felt Greg's hand close around his cock, shielding it from the desk and giving it the sort of stimulation that would actually get him somewhere. He sighed around the silk stuffed in his mouth.

"I should just leave you like this - let you meet the ambassador with a raging erection and my come leaking out your arse." Even as he said it, his hand moved skilfully over Mycroft's aching prick.

The filthy thought of being denied orgasm and shamed in front of the ambassador only brought Mycroft closer to release. It was horrifying, and yet so incredibly arousing.

Greg bit his lip hard as he felt himself getting closer, wishing he had his own handkerchief. He changed his angle slightly to hit Mycroft's prostate more consistently and rubbed his thumb over the sensitive head of Mycroft's cock. With nothing more than a ragged gasp, he emptied himself deep inside Mycroft's arse, his knees going weak as the force of his orgasm hit him. Mycroft came then, all over the side of his desk.

It took them a while to recover. Greg regained enough presence of mind to retrieve the handcuff key from his trousers and unlock the cuffs. Greg pulled the square of wet silk from Mycroft's mouth as Mycroft rubbed at his wrists. Greg gave him a wicked look. "You're not quite done yet. Your desk is a mess." He glanced meaningfully at the front of the desk – directly in front of the guest chair. "I think you should clean that up."

Mycroft knelt on the floor, glad he kept his office scrupulously clean as he licked his own ejaculate from his desk. After making sure to get every last drop, he stood up and kissed Greg. "Thank you. Best day at the office I've had in ages." He dragged Greg towards the private bathroom so they could both clean up.

As they dressed, Mycroft pulled the cuffs of his shirt lower to hide the marks left by the handcuffs and wondered if the ambassador would notice the red indentations when they shook hands. His trousers were slightly crumpled and his handkerchief was ruined – at least for now – but those things, along with the pleasant aching in his arse, would just remind him of the pleasant interlude.

After another quick kiss, they moved closer to the outer office door.

"Thank you for coming by, Detective Inspector. I do hope I was able to help with your investigation."

"Indeed. I certainly appreciate your cooperation Mr Holmes. Thank you." Greg gave him a quick smile and winked.

As they exited the office, Anthea gave Mycroft a brief conspiratorial glance. Mycroft made a mental note to purchase her a small token of his appreciation.

"Good afternoon, Ambassador. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting. Please come in." Mycroft gave a slight bow, knowing he'd much rather show deference to Gregory, any day.


	4. Property of Gregory Lestrade

They got into the black car waiting outside of 221B. Mycroft deferentially opened the car door for Greg and let him get inside first.

"You realise you're going to have to make this up to me, Mycroft," Greg said with a dangerous undercurrent in his voice.

Mycroft felt a thrill run through his gut even greater than the one he'd felt when Greg had forced the plug into him, only minutes before. Usually when he submitted to Greg, it was because he needed the release. Only on rare occasions did Greg take the initiative to dominate him.

"I don't care that you're fucking Sherlock. You know that. And I don't care that you don't always want me there while you do it." He grabbed Mycroft's punk collar and pulled him close - too close, invading his personal space. "But I _do _want to know what's going on. You may be the 'The British Government', but I think you'll find that you answer to me, as well as the Queen."

"I'm sorry, Gregory. I should have told you we were meeting."

"You're damned right you should have."

"What can I do to make it up to you, Gregory?"

"Sir."

"What can I do to make it up to you, Sir?"

"I haven't decided yet. But getting on your knees would be a start."

This was one of the smaller cars, and there was no privacy screen. The chauffeur was too discreet to react as his employer got out of his seat and knelt uncomfortably between Greg's legs.

"Can you feel those tight jeans pushing against that big plug I shoved in there?"

"Yes, sir." Mycroft made a mental note to give his driver a particularly large 'discretionary bonus' at the earliest opportunity.

"Shy, all of a sudden? You weren't so shy when we walked in to find you with your brother over your knees."

A very, _very_ large bonus. Despite the humiliation, or perhaps because of it, his jeans were once again uncomfortably tight.

Greg reached down and palmed the sizable bulge in Mycroft's trousers. "Slut."

Mycroft had no response and kept his head bowed.

Gregory grabbed his collar and pulled him forward, claiming his mouth in a kiss. It was more of a possessive action than a tender one, and it left both of them throbbing with need and lust.

He fisted Mycroft's t-shirt. "When we get back home, you won't be needing clothes. The only thing you'll be wearing for a while is your collar. Your _proper _collar." He was referring to Mycroft's submissive collar, not his punk collar. While he, Sherlock, and John had collars that said 'Property of Mycroft Holmes', it was a little known fact that Mycroft owned one that said 'Property of Gregory Lestrade'.

Not even Sherlock knew that.

Greg reached out and grabbed one of his lover's deceptively delicate-looking wrists. He forced Mycroft's palm over his own growing erection. "Make me want it."

Mycroft reached to undo Greg's trousers, but he shook his head.

"No. Through my jeans. You don't have my permission to touch. I'm going to make you beg for that."

Mycroft Holmes was a very smart man, and he knew that the time to beg was most certainly _not now_. He pushed the palm of his hand against the hardness in Greg's jeans, rubbing him and grasping at the outline of his cock beneath the thick denim.

"Look at me."

As soon as he met Greg's gaze, he longed to look back down. Greg was giving him a slight, predatory smile that left no doubt as to who was in charge. He kept up his work on Greg's erection through his jeans.

"Use your mouth."

Mycroft's eyes widened in a hint of panic, but he immediately dropped his head, relieved to be allowed to break Greg's gaze. He planted his hands on the seat and buried his face in Lestrade's crotch.

Greg caught the driver stealing a quick glance in the rear-view mirror.

"What? Not every day you see your boss on his knees between a bloke's legs? It better fucking not be."

The chauffeur's gaze turned back to the road so quickly he almost gave himself whiplash.

Mycroft smiled to himself. Actually, he was sure the driver probably _had _seen it more than once - certainly with Gregory - but his discretion was why Mycroft paid him so well. He'd probably driven _all _of them around, in the back of one car or another, doing some fairly incriminating things. Most of the time, they were just too busy acting like hormone-addled teenagers to care.

They got back to the flat, and the driver hopped out to open the door for them. He wouldn't meet Greg's gaze. "Sir."

Greg gave him a conspiratorial smile anyway. "Don't worry, I won't let him sack you. Besides, I'd have looked, too - it's not every day you see Mycroft Holmes on his knees."

The pale skin of Mycroft's neck flushed a deep pink, and they made their way into the building as the driver pulled back into the evening traffic.

"You first. I want to watch your arse in those jeans. It's not a sight I see often enough."

Mycroft wondered, not for the first time that evening, what Greg was planning. He knew that he'd _planned _to spend a couple hours at the pub, but he and Sherlock had effectively derailed that plan, and now it was time to apologise. Again. His arse still stung from the first apology.

They took the lift to the top floor in silence. As they stepped into the flat, Mycroft could feel Greg's dark brown eyes on him, even as he began a detailed study of the carpet fibres.

"Enough of that, Mycroft. Look at me."

He met Greg's gaze, once again.

"You know, I was quite looking forward to a few pints and some nice footy on the telly afterwards. I still am." He took off his coat and handed it to Mycroft. "Hang this up. Remove all your clothes except for your jeans, and put on your proper collar. And be quick about it." He sat on the sofa in front of the telly and turned it on.

Mycroft hurried down the hallway towards the bedroom. This was not what he'd expected. After hanging up Greg's coat, he undid his combat boots as quickly as possible. _I should have gotten the ones with hooks at the top instead of lace holes. _Next to go were his socks, t-shirt, and punk collar. Finally, he retrieved his own collar from its location in Gregory's top dresser drawer and buckled it firmly around his neck.

He rushed back to the living room to find Greg sprawled on the sofa, seemingly engrossed in the match.

Greg turned to look at him and gave him a lascivious stare. "That's a nice look for you."

Mycroft felt incredibly self-conscious wearing only his jeans and his collar, but that might have been the point.

"Grab me a beer from the kitchen and then come in here."

He returned, handed Greg the freshly-opened bottle, and waited.

Greg looked him over. "You've got nice feet. They're always covered up in socks; you should go barefoot more often. It's sexy."

Mycroft remained silent, not sure if he should be speaking, and certainly not sure what he should be saying. None of their previous disciplinary sessions had ever taken this sort of tone, and he was downright confused.

"Okay, here's the thing, right? My evening down the pub… wasn't. The thing back at the flat was a lot of fun but fairly exhausting. All I really want is to curl up on the sofa, with you, and watch the telly for a bit. I want you in your jeans because I think you look hot in them. I'm leaving that plug in you because I want to fuck you into the mattress later, and you're wearing your collar because I don't want you wandering off without thinking about it. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Don't call me Sir."

"Yes, Gregory."

"Oh, but as terms of your punishment, you will be required, at least once every ten minutes, to make a relevant comment about the match."

Mycroft just groaned and curled up next to Greg on the sofa.

"Enough of that," Greg said, pulling him closer and kissing him, "or I'll make it once every five minutes."

Mycroft smiled, contentedly, and settled in for the evening.


End file.
